"
"I'm not going to struggle any more. If you go away I'll follow you
wherever you go. I may as well try to give up keeping you out of it.
It's like keeping myself out of it."
Slowly she took her hat and coat off again.
"Well, then," she said, "I'd better stay, I suppose."
He suddenly sat down, his face white. She came across to him.
She put her hand on his forehead.
"You'd better go to bed, Martin, dear. I'll bring your tea in."
He caught her hand. She knelt down, put her arms round him, and so
they stayed, cheek to cheek, for a long time.
When he had gone to his room she sat in the arm-chair by the fire,
her hands idly folded on her lap. She let happiness pour in upon her
as water floods in upon a dried and sultry river-bed. She was
passive, her tranquillity was rich and full, too full for any
outward expression.
She was so happy that her heart was weighted down and seemed
scarcely to beat. It was not, perhaps, the exultant happiness that
she had expected this moment to bring her.
When, in after days, she looked back to that quiet half-hour by the
fire she saw that it was then that she had passed from girlhood into
womanhood.
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